The policy of encouraging predator populations makes sense on paper — natural balance, the cycle of life — heck, even the cycle of nutrients.

But the disconnection between policy and reality fires my flame at the moment.

Current policy forces me to protect my sheep with my hands tied behind my back. The sheep offer their own defense, of course, and it is just about as effective as mine. An image flashes through my mind of me standing in the center of a flock of sheep, rattling a string of pots and pans with my teeth while the ewes stomp their feet at 500 pounds fronted by 5-inch canines.

I head to the corral for a closer look at today’s to-do list. Three ewes stand over newborns. Lambing season has begun.

I leave the new families in place and turn the rest of the sheep to pasture. Then I take a rifle and binoculars to go fix some fence, watchful on a warm spring day, considering my options.

I’m not sure how I will take care of the situation if I discover grizzlies attacking my livestock. I have several choices, some legal, some not. Some risk my life, some don’t.

What I do know is that I will take care of the situation.

Because I have to.

I thought back to the first, most deadly time a grizzly invaded my sheep lot.
Mine was his seventh strike — he had been captured and moved after killing livestock six previous times. He didn’t eat what he killed.

It was early June. My husband, Steve, planned to leave that day to visit his new grandson in Mississippi.